


The Gift

by Ivarinleatherpants (AdamantErinyes)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: But Still Terrible With Women, F/M, Ivar is Not a Virgin, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, Master/Slave, Rough Sex, The Harem Girl/Ivar fic no one asked for but you're getting anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantErinyes/pseuds/Ivarinleatherpants
Summary: Many years into his life of conquest, Ivar receives an unexpected gift from the Emir of Cordoba, a Viking bought as a thrall and raised in the harem. At first uninterested by a meek slave with no useful purpose, he is soon surprised to find that she possesses hidden depths, with a passion that may rival his own.





	The Gift

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of conquering, and Ivar the Boneless is king of Northumbria, Dublin, and Kattegat. 31-years-old and he has created a veritable empire. Wherever he goes, his name is known and feared.

And he is _bored_.

Because, as it turns out, once the lands are conquered there is the need to keep control over them, and that means diplomacy. No matter where he goes he is expected to meet other rulers and make nice with them, to encourage trade and create alliances.

It’s at the point that Ivar is beginning to deeply sympathize with his father’s choice to simply disappear and become a wandering hermit. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with one more insufferable, crawling toady seeking to assure that their lands don’t become the next to be added to the list of the subjugated.

Now an emissary from the Emir of Cordoba stands before him, attempting to gain his favor by going on and on about how much his master admires him. In his younger years, he might have started throwing knives just to break up the tedium of pleasantries and carefully orchestrated smiles. But he is a grown man now, and has long ago learned to control his fierce temper.

The simpering idiot is speaking, and Ivar makes an effort to look like he’s interested in what he has to say.

“His Highness wishes to make a special gift to the great King.”

Ivar raises his eyebrows to suggest surprise, even though he’s been expecting something like this for some time. He’s seen enough gold and jewels in the past years that he’s almost sick of it. But to his surprise when the emissary makes an ushering gesture, instead of men carrying chests of wealth a young girl steps forward.

“This slave has been in the Emir’s harem since childhood, though she was born of your people. The Emir wishes to present her to you with his compliments.”

Ivar can’t hide his alarm at this. What is the meaning of this? Has the Emir heard the stories that are told, that he has no lust for women, and is seeking to test him?

The emissary misinterprets his reaction, rushing to assure him, “She is, of course, still a virgin. She has never been presented to the Emir.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Ivar asks, trying to cover his dismay with sarcasm.

The emissary is quick to explain that there are many female slaves in the harem who will never become concubines, though not because of any defect. To Ivar, the concept of a bed slave who is not bedded is strange. To have a slave who the ruler feeds and clothes, and yet they serve no purpose, it’s ridiculous to him.

There is no option to refuse. Even Ivar isn’t willing to insult another powerful ruler by rejecting what is obviously a valuable slave. So all he can do is nod and smile and say how terribly _grateful_ he is for the Emir’s generosity.

He doesn’t see the slave again until much later when he goes to his bedroom. He stops short in the doorway when he finds her standing in the middle of the room. The girl is obviously of Danish lineage. Even though she keeps her head bowed, he can see the pale blonde color of her hair and the fairness of her skin.

Ivar approaches her slowly, leaning heavily on his crutches after a long day. He has to duck down a little to see her face, and finds a pretty girl obviously trying to hide her terror. No doubt she’s heard stories of his ruthlessness. Curious, he picks up a lock of her hair and rubs it between his fingers, testing the softness of the strands before bringing it to his face to breath in the scent of expensive perfume.

Just looking at her skin he knows that it would feel just as smooth beneath his rough hands. It is unlike any other Danish woman he has seen, let alone slave. It’s clear she has been pampered her whole life, shielded from any harsh climate. A part of him is scornful, but another part wonders what it would be like to hold her against him, to feel all of that softness against his bare skin.

The girl is trembling, but still doing her best to maintain her composure and an air of deference.

“Do you still speak Norse?” he asks her, and she nods, “What is your name?”

“Marjaan.” She whispers.

“What is your birth name?”

“Rannveig.”

“How did you come to belong to the Emir?”

“I was born a slave, my lord.” she replies, her Norse slow and accented, “I was brought to Al-Andalus as a child and sold to the Emir.”

His questions answered, he is bored with her already. She may be beautiful, but beauty is pointless to him. Though he is well aware after all these years that he can bed a woman if he wanted to, he finds himself rarely inspired to do so. Where once women were horrified or disgusted by his legs, now he finds that they are either terrified by the tales of his bloodthirst or far more interested in his position than him as a person. He finds that neither terror nor avarice particularly interesting, so he remains alone and unwed, only occasionally giving in to the needs of his body.

The girl is plainly confused when Ivar tells her she can go to sleep. Likely, she would feel grateful not to be savaged by her barbaric new master once she understood he had no desire for her at the present. He strips down to his underclothes and sees that she is already in bed and has pulled the furs up to her nose and watching him for any sign that he’s changed his mind.

“Sleep, Rann” Ivar grunts, climbing in beside her. His legs ache tonight and he has no patience for skittish slaves that have been forced upon him.

~...~

Over the days, Rann -she starts to think of herself by that name again- finds that Ivar’s court is vastly different to the one she grew up in. Here, there is no harem. Women mix freely with men whether they be wives, daughters, or slaves. Whereas no man would have dared speak to a woman belonging to the Emir, Ivar doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered when men approach her to ask casual questions.

A man visits who Rann learns is Ivar’s brother, Hvitserk. She is flabbergasted because the tall Viking openly looks her up and down, making bawdy jokes about her sharing Ivar’s bed every night. And while she’s scandalized by this kind of talk, Ivar laughs along with it, especially when Hvitserk teases her for blushing.

Perhaps it is because he doesn’t really see her as being of any real value. The skills she learned in the harem are of little use here. Her new master has no interest in her dancing or music. The one time she’d offered to recite poetry for him he’d given her an incredulous look and turned his back to her. It’s frustrating to her that, more often than not, she finds herself sitting about with no purpose.

At least Ivar seems to not be as cruel as rumored. He doesn’t beat her. If anything, he sees her as nothing more than a mild nuisance, an unwanted present that he must set up on a shelf and display but otherwise ignore. Even if he did feel something else for her, she wouldn’t know. His expression is often an inscrutable mask of cynical boredom that she suspects is half real and half put on to hide his thoughts from the many foreign visitors he meets.

She is also allowed to go wherever she wishes. The harem had consisted of winding corridors of rooms and courtyards. Once inside, the women rarely if ever left. Here she wanders the streets at will. Her status keeps her protected. No one would dare harass or harm the concubine of their warrior King.

And he is a true warrior. She has come across him in the training yard, sparring with Hvitserk or one of his other men. Even though it leaves him aching and forced to use his crutches by the end of the day, he holds nothing back, as if he is fighting for his greatest enemy and not his own flesh and blood. And when he finally stands over his brother, the tip of his sword against his neck, his gaze flicks over to catch hers. She flinches under his stern glare and scurries away, pulling her cloak more tightly around her to ward off the unfamiliar chill.

But the thing that Rann likes best about her new circumstances is that there are no other women in her master’s life. There is no reason to keep her head down or watch her back to avoid upsetting a jealous favorite.

When he’d told her that she would sleep in his room, she’d been surprised. The Emir would never have had a woman sleep in his own bed. If he wanted to spend the night with a concubine, they would go to a bedchamber set aside for that purpose.

The next thing she felt was apprehension, but she’d been trained never to speak unless asked a direct question, so she couldn’t simply ask him. Luckily, Ivar is perceptive and can usually tell when she has something she wishes to say, and being in a relatively pleasant mood that first morning had invited her to speak.

“Will your wife not be upset, my lord?” She’d asked, and he’d smiled dryly.

“If I had a wife, I’m sure she would be. As it is, I am not, and I’d rather not house you with the _useful_ slaves.”

Rann isn’t too proud to admit that his dismissal of her stings. True, she hadn’t been trained as a concubine like some of the others in the harem. The decision to send her as a gift had been something of a whim for the Emir, and there had only been enough time to give her the bare minimum of instruction on how to please a man.

But while many of her friends were elated at the prospect of living a life of luxury without ever once touching a man, Rann was different. As she’d grown into young womanhood, she’d found herself often leaning against a window, straining to get a look at the Emir’s grown sons. Something about the handsome young men had fascinated her.

Now she lies beside a man she finds more beautiful than any other man she’s seen before, dynamic and vital, and he makes no move to touch her. More than that, he openly disdains her presence. If it wasn’t enough that she be she frustrated in her yearning for Ivar, she’s also made to feel completely worthless to him.

But Rann is determined to make herself useful to him, and a few weeks into her new life she discovers just how to do that. The women and girls she’d grown up with in the harem where from all over the world, and over the years she’d amused herself by learning to speak a few of their languages.

One day, she notices that a visitor’s translator is purposefully altering Ivar’s words to mask his displeasure with something the visitor said. Rann is annoyed by this, and Ivar picks up on her mood quickly. When asked, she explains the translator’s subterfuge, and she blushes as he gives her an approving nod and instructs her to translate for him.

When the visitor finally leaves with a bee in his ear, Ivar questions her. He immediately commands her to interpret for him whenever possible. Rann bows her head in deference, but also to hide her smile of pleasure. Finally, she has a use to him beyond that of a rather attractive wall decoration.

That evening, she enters the room she still shares with Ivar to find him reclining with his back to her in the large bathtub. It’s the first time she’s been able to really scrutinize any part of his body without his knowledge.

Even though all she can see is the backs of his shoulders and his arms as they drape out to the sides across the rim of the tub, it is still an impressive view. In the harem, she’d been kept far apart from men who were not the Emir or a eunuch, and it’s strangely exciting to be so close to a virile man in his prime.

His tattoos especially fascinate her. They’re something no Muslim would ever have, and it had been so long since she’d lived among these people, she’d been surprised when she first saw them. But now she finds that they are rather beautiful, and accentuate his already exceptional physique.

“Help me wash my hair.”

Ivar’s voice is soft, but it still startles her. Of course he would know that she was there. He is constantly aware of everything going on around him, like a sharp-eyed falcon, sleeping with one eye open.

Rann creeps forward and starts to loosen his hair. It’s dark, and while the sides are shaved the rest is kept in an ornate braid that crests over the top of his head and falls halfway down back. She’s never seen it loose before, and now she thinks it may actually be longer than hers.

He allows her to manipulate his head, tipping it back to wet the strands and then massaging soap into his scalp. It seems to actually soothe him. She can see his muscles relaxing and a small moan of pleasure escapes him as she finishes rinsing it.

But her task isn’t complete. With an idle flick of a hand he gestures to a chest and tells her to get a comb. She finds a comb of ornately carved antler and sets to work detangling his hair. Being careful to be as gentle as possible removing any knots, it seems to take hours to finish. And all the while Ivar merely lies there head tipped back in contentment as she works until his hair is smooth and glistening.

It’s not the only thing that’s glistening. The steam from the bath has heated her skin, making her garments stick to her uncomfortably and, when she finally sits back on her heels, she has to wipe away a sheen of perspiration from her forehead.

Up until now, Ivar has been strangely modest about showing her his body. So Rann is shocked when, the next thing she knows, he’s standing up in the bath right in front of her. The water steams off of him, accentuating the firm planes of his back and buttocks. Even his legs, which she knows he has difficulty with, are covered in a layer of lean muscle.

She’s doesn’t remember ever seeing a naked man before, and she’s fascinated by how much Ivar differs from her. In the light from the fire, his skin fairly glows, and she finds that it is no less beautiful for the many scars on him, but especially his legs. They are like a painting to her, telling a tale of battles fought and won.

Desperate to cover her flustered state, Rann scurries to grab the large piece of cloth set aside to dry Ivar and hold it up between them. He looks back over his shoulder at her, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. Mercifully, he takes the cloth and wraps it around his hips _before_ turning around, sparing her from having to make the choice whether or not abandon all show of submission and shamelessly ogle his body.

~...~

Rann was proving to be a great deal more… amusing, than Ivar had originally expected. He’d expected the girl to be worldly, a seductress experienced in the ways of men, even if she hadn’t technically lain with one.

Instead he finds that she’s easily disconcerted by him. He believes it to be virginal shyness, and he discovers that he takes a surprising amount of pleasure in making her blush and flutter about like an exotic bird, keeping her gaze on anything _but_ his body.

Now as she washes and combs his hair, Ivar’s surprised to find his prick reacting to her touch. His libido rarely makes itself known without his conscious thought, and he’s torn between annoyance and curiosity that this slave would be the one to break his control.

Feeling the urge to test her, he stands up from the bath. He isn’t disappointed. From behind him he can hear her give a surprised chirp and go into a flurry of movement as she rushes to cover him. For a moment he considers turning around and wrapping them both up in the cloth, but in the end he sits on the bed and watches her as he dries himself, for once uncaring of what is exposed to her innocent eyes.

Those very eyes now flick about the room as Rann stands in place, hands folded demurely in front of her. She seems at a loss for what to do now. Ivar scrutinizes her silently, rubbing the moisture from his skin absent-mindedly.

“Take that off.” He commands quietly.

Her eyes widen at Ivar’s order, but she obeys, slipping off her robe of sheer, embroidered silk. She’s never removed her dress in his presence before, and she doesn’t now. But he wants to see it, all of that impossibly smooth, soft skin, and he will not be dissuaded.

He gives a motion with his fingers, a simple downward flick, and Rann understands immediately. But even though she blushes, she complies without protest, untying the bow at the top of the high collar and letting the heavy silk fall from her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Ivar cocks his head to the side, taking in the sight of creamy, unblemished flesh without reaction, even though he’s surprised at what he sees. All the hair below her neck has been removed. He’s never seen such a thing before, doesn’t entirely understand why it would be done. Although he has to admit to himself that he finds it rather thrilling to have nothing hiding her most feminine parts from him.

Rann shifts, nervous under his gaze. With another quick gesture he beckons her to come closer. He doesn’t let her stop until she stands between his spread thighs and he can see little bumps break out across her skin where his breath ghosts over it.

“My lord?” It is the first time she’s ever spoken to him out of turn, and he hushes her sharply.

He cups her hips, wondering at the delicacy of her. How little effort would it take to mark her, he wonders. It seems to him that just running his rough hands over her skin would be enough to draw blood from something so exquisitely soft.

In a single move he lifts her, twisting so that when she falls to the bed beside him he leans over her. Laid out like this, he can more easily analyze the differences between them that he finds so compelling. Just the contrast of his skin against hers pleases him. His, dark from spending his days training outdoors, and hers, pale like milk after years of being kept indoors, sheltered from the sun.

Rann trembles under Ivar’s palms, even though he has yet to touch anything beyond her hips and waist. Looking into her eyes, her pupils are dilated. He can see how quickly she is breathing just from the rise and fall of her chest.

But even if she is afraid, she makes no move to stop his attentions, and he wonders at her resolute acceptance of him. What is she prepared to endure to please him? What would she allow him to do to her before her courage would break? And he can feel the wildness he’s fought so hard to suppress begin to stir.

~...~

Just his calm perusal of her has Rann reeling. Ivar gives her no indication of what he wants from her, so she is forced to err on the side of caution and remain passively accepting. It’s killing her to hold still, to keep her hands by her shoulders instead of exploring the magnificent body beside her. If only he would say something, tell her what to do, what he expected of her, what his intentions were. As it is she feels adrift on a foreign sea, her body warming and aching in a way she’s only vaguely familiar with.

His grip on her becomes harsher on her hips, kneading the softness he finds there before moving up to squeeze one breast. His grasp borders on painful, but Rann is surprised to find that her body reacts with pleasure. She has to turn away, pressing a cheek into the soft furs and fighting to stifle a moan as his fingers twist and pinch her nipple. But despite all her efforts, she can’t quite stop herself when he replaces them with his mouth, and she lets out a small squeak as his teeth scrape the sensitive bud.

He bites down, and her back begins to arch involuntarily as he slowly increases the pressure. With one hand he shoves her back down, holding her flat as he worries each of her poor nipples with his teeth and tongue.

By the time he relents and sits back to view his handiwork, Rann’s had to fist her hands in her own hair to stop herself from curling them in his. His damp hair falls over one shoulder and teases her skin, and she imagines gripping it and forcing him back down to her breast. Alas, he seems content to admire the swollen, angry redness of her abused flesh, and she has to take deep breathes to prevent herself from begging him to do more.

Ivar’s lips curl into a dark smirk, and he orders her to look at him before raising his hand and bringing it down with a _crack_ on her bare flank. Rann yelps, her eyes widening in shock as she fights to keep her gaze steady on his as heat blooms in her skin and travels to her womanhood. He laughs and does it again. The blows are mild in comparison with what she knows he’s capable of, but her eyes still well up from the sting.

“Breathe.” He reminds her, grinning to reveal all of those sharp, white teeth she’s quickly grown so fond of. He is still, and she realizes he wants her to reply.

“Yes, my lord.” She manages to croak out, but it’s enough for Ivar.

His palm comes down on her again, and she rolls towards him, instinctively seeking out the reassuring wall of warmth that is his body. The next strike lands directly on her buttocks. His hand holds there, massaging briefly before delivering another slap. He leans forward, apparently enjoying the sight of the rounded flesh shake from the blow and reddening beneath his hand.

Her fingers flex, one in her hair and one in the furs beneath them. In her current position with her chin tucked into her chest, she can subtly observe the lower half of Ivar’s body without him noticing. She has never seen the organ of an adult male before, and she is fascinated by the sight of Ivar’s. Curiously, it looks as inflamed and angry as her nipples, even though it remains untouched.

The burning between her thighs grows as she recalls the little she was told of techniques used to pleasure a man. She wonders if Ivar would enjoy any of them, if he might let her try sometime.

All through this he’s continued to alternate between spanking and rubbing her bottom, until his hand slips down between her thighs and he freezes in shock.

~...~

Ivar isn’t a _complete_ idiot, he knows what the thick wetness between Rann’s legs means, he just can’t seem to get his mind to connect it with anything that has happened up until now.

When… how… _why_? He was in no way prepared for this. He’d only been curious as to whether the skin between her legs was softer than other places -it was-, and now he finds that she was saturated with arousal after he’s treated her so brutally.

She’s curled into Ivar, as if seeking shelter from the very force causing her pain because she knows no other source of comfort, or so he’d thought. He pushes her onto her back again and, frowning, takes in the expression he thought was hidden fear.

Ivar has long ago resigned himself to being undesirable, and has made no effort to test that belief since then. Sex was something he did when the urge became too strong, like an itch that needed to be scratched. And he’s always been careful to choose slaves with a pacid disposition who would allow him to satisfy himself and then move on without a fuss. He felt more passion cleaning his weapons than he had bedding those women.So he isn’t really sure _what_ a woman in the throes of lust might look like.

He grips Rann’s jaw in his hand, holding and turning her so she can’t hide from him. Her eyes look strangely sleepy; cheeks are flushed pink; her mouth relaxed; and when he tips her face to look directly at his, her lips part softly in a silent petition even Ivar can understand.

For some reason, it frustrates Ivar that she should react this way to something he intended to be unpleasant. With a growl he responds to her with what is more an aggressive pressing together of mouths than an actual kiss. And yet, he can taste her sigh. She is all pliable acceptance and he has to pull away, clench his teeth against the sudden swelling of emotion in his chest.

Still grinding his jaw, he hisses the question he never thought he would ask her. “You want this? Me?”

It’s like his question opens a floodgate. Given permission to speak, Rann can’t seem to stop herself once she starts.

“Yes! Yes, Ivar!” she says breathlessly, “I want you! I want you to take me. Do what you will with me, just don’t let me go.”

He kisses her again just to stop her outpouring of words, unable to bear the honest sentiment behind them. But his hand softens on her jaw, he tries to move his lips against hers the way he’s seen others do. It may be a terrible kiss for all he knows, but Rann doesn’t seem to care. Something has snapped inside her and she throws her arms around him, holding him to her as her fingers tangle in his loose mane.

If she were any other woman, Ivar would turn her onto her stomach and take her from behind. But for once he wants to see the woman’s expression, to see her reaction to having him inside her play out on her face. He pulls her back to him with a firm hold on her thigh, reaches down to line himself up and with one quick, violent thrust is inside her.

Rann’s mouth tears away from his as she cries out, her leg tightening around his hip to try to hold him still. Ivar tries to be mindful that she’s a maiden, but he’s surrounded on all sides by sweet, impossible softness and his body doesn’t seem prepared to listen to his mind.

But her leg is impressively strong, he can’t thrust in and out the way he wants to. Frustrated, he wants to punish her. He starts to grind his hips in place in an attempt to cause her some kind of discomfort.

It backfires spectacularly. By all rights, the sound that comes out of Rann should be from pain, her face is contorted. But she pulls him tighter against her, rolling her hips with his, and he realizes that this deceptively simple movement is causing her intense pleasure. His temper truly riled, he strikes her ass again, but she grunts and arches at the pain in a way that in no way indicates remorse.

Ivar has to lean down and snarl in her ear, “Release me, woman!”

She moans and relaxes her grip on him and he can finally move. It is pure bliss. His cock moves easily from her slickness. He’s half aware that she isn’t reacting as enthusiastically to his rutting as she was to the harsh grinding, but he simply doesn’t _care_ at this point.

Nothing has ever felt so good in his life. Her nails score deep lines into his back and he hisses, slaps her ass one last time and rushes quickly to a powerful climax that leaves him weak as a newborn colt.

~...~

Her master spills his seed deep inside her, and then rolls away, leaving Rann feeling chilled without the warmth of his body against hers. A few short minutes later she hears the familiar sound of snoring.

She isn’t quite sure what to do now. If she were in the harem, she would likely have returned to her own room. There she would wait, perhaps in vain, for another call to attend to her master. Here, she will sleep and wake beside him, and she has absolutely no idea of what that will be like.

She stands slowly due to the soreness in her lower half, and shuffles awkwardly to the tepid bath to clean up a little before donning her nightgown. Ivar is sprawled out over the furs, so she retrieves a few more from a chest. He doesn’t stir when she drapes one over him, nor when she slips in beside him. Despite her worries, Rann’s body is exhausted and she falls asleep quickly.

The next morning, she wakes to find Ivar already up and dressing. He sits on the side of the bed, buckling the metal and leather braces he sometimes wears over his linen underpants, beneath his trousers. Feeling her stir, he glances over his shoulder, expression enigmatic as usual.

Blushing in the cold light of day, Rann smiles shyly. Ivar nods in acknowledgement and turns back to finish dressing. Her smile falls. Had she done something wrong? Disappointed him somehow?

And then she frowns at his back. Her jaw sets with determination. Moving slowly, she crawls towards him. Her hips sway, rubbing the cloth of her nightgown against her sore flesh. Without looking, she knows that her thighs are marked with bruises from his hands. She does not shrink from the discomfort. She is no weak girl, she is a Viking woman, raised in the harem of the Emir of Cordoba, where women ruled from behind silken veils and latticed screens, and she will _not_ be dismissed like some common whore.

He raises a questioning eyebrow at her when she lays her hands on his shoulders. She gives him another sweet smile as she smoothes his hair back from his face. He’s already combed out the tangles from the night before, and she slowly works it into the braid he favors. When she’s done, she places her hands back on his shoulders, leaning forward to press a feather-light kiss to his cheek. He tries to hide it, but there is a noticeable upward curve at the corner of his mouth.

~...~

When he woke, Ivar’s first thought had been to turn to the woman sleeping beside him and take her again. Rann appears to be deep asleep, worn out from their exertions the night before. He cannot see her skin, but he can imagine the marks it must bear. The hand that has reached out to shake her hesitates, the fingers curls in. With a sigh he withdraws from temptation, forcing himself to get out of bed and ready himself for the day.

After all, he has always had an iron-clad control on the pitiful urgings of his body. It wouldn’t do to give in so easily, even if a vision of Rann’s face, lost in pleasure, floats before his eyes like a ghost. Even if she drove him so thoroughly out of his mind that he completely forgot to withdraw from her at the end.

Ivar goes through his morning routine mechanically, his thoughts constantly pulled back to the woman behind him. The third time he finds himself staring off into space, hand poised midair in the midst of some task, he gives himself a shake. He angrily rebukes himself for being so soft, just because… because…

He grits his teeth, choking off a sound of frustration before it rings out into the chamber. He has to _focus_. By the time he feels Rann stirring behind him, he’s able to keep his expression impassive, even when faced with her bashful, captivating little smile.

He’s feeling rather proud of himself, but he hadn’t planned on Rann being bold after last night. It was foolish of him. Possibly the most ridiculous miscalculation he’s ever made, considering that his back looks like it’s been attacked by a feral kitten. The scratches litter his skin and sting every time he moves, so he can only blame himself for not thinking about what last night might mean for her behavior.

Rann’s hands are light on him; soft, brushing touches that soothe away all his irritation. He can feel the slightest pressure of her breasts against his back through the thin fabric of their clothes. Perhaps she is some kind of a witch. That must be it. There is magic in those little hands. She braids his hair without ever once tugging too hard, and when she’s finished she gives him a kiss on the cheek that’s barely there. He can’t stop his face from showing a hint of pleasure.

What an interesting creature she’s turned out to be, this unwanted gift. Ivar of all people can appreciate someone with hidden depths. For the first time, he feels a growing curiosity about Rann. If she’s been hiding such an intense passion from him all this time, what else might there be to discover about her?

A new vision appears before him, that of a queen as stately and elegant as his mother had been. A woman he need hide nothing from, and who in turn hides nothing from him. He sees her growing round with his child, an heir to the lands he’s fought so hard to conquer.

Ivar grips Rann’s chin with a smirk, taking in her countenance. There is uncertainty there, but there is also a flicker of fire deep in her eyes. Once, he’d been much like her, hesitant, unaware of what he was capable of achieving. He will enjoy drawing her out, showing her what the combination of a clever mind and a passionate heart can do.

Her eyes have drifted shut, her mouth angled subtly towards his, but he releases her without any satisfaction. He chuckles at her sound of irritation as he closes the door behind him. Let her stew in her frustration for a while, it would only make their next encounter all the sweeter.


End file.
